


In Theory, Black Holes Shouldn't Exist

by CrustyBaguette



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: College AU, F/F, F/M, Gen, Jeans family is filthy rich, Lots of space shit, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Space and plants Baeby!, flower shop, flower shop au, flowershop, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-01-11 05:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18423531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrustyBaguette/pseuds/CrustyBaguette
Summary: Filling the twilight airwith romancelighting upthe night skywith the sparkleof mystiquethe scent of gardeniaafloat tonighton the wings of love- Line GauthierWhen Jean drops out of College after pursuing an unwanted English degree, he finds himself floating along with life, unhappy with his quiet small town. He finds this uprooted, however, when he meets a smiling dark-haired boy who is full of epiphanies and stars.





	1. First Encounter

         You know, I’ve never really thought about the cosmos before.

 

                I mean, I love symbolism and metaphors, but I’ve never really been into deeper meanings of the celestial kind. Yeah, that’s what a lot of people think of when they imagine space kids, but I always prefered what was going on down here. That’s why I wanted to study botany. My whole big dream in life was to fuck off to the East Coast and start a nursery. Yet here I am, sitting all the way on the other side of the country in Middleofnowheresville Washington. And not the cool one, the one that’s all forests and cold and actually really great seafood. And while I love my job, it’s pretty hard to explain to people that you work in a flowershop-but-not-actually-flowershop because we don’t sell flowers, we sell potted plants, which gets the reaction of “Oh, so a nursery then?” (which is wrong because we don’t grow our own plants) Or weed jokes. So basically that’s my life.

 

               Jean, you may ask me, how did you get yourself into the absolutely wonderful predicament of working at a not-flowershop instead of, like, getting a degree like most kids your age? Well, you see, I had the wonderful luck of being incredibly gifted in the Language Arts. Which is actually a full on fucking curse because guess what? My lovely dad, who is incredibly successful due to the fact he works at my bitch ass mega loaded granddad’s firm, exists. And I mean fucking rich. He lives in a two million dollar penthouse in Vermont. And the bastard wants me to follow in his footsteps of mooching off of daddy and getting cash from a business degree, so I choose the closest thing to that that would ensure me not getting disowned: An English major. I told him I wanted to be an author. He liked my poetry and stories enough to let me do it, but I was not happy with the writing and comprehension and grammar I had to endure in my lessons each day. So I dropped out, much to my father’s dismay. My mom was fine with it, she said she “Just wanted me to be happy” and “People can find success without a higher education”. Ha. Easy for her to say, she is a full on trophy wife. She got married to my dad at 25, had me at 26, and has never once considered doing more with her life than staying at home doing yoga and going to country clubs. She used to be a swimmer, and was the best in her small little Michigan town. But then she took a tumble with heels to high, and landed right at the foot of a full time stay at home mom job. Huh. Maybe I should get a six pack and snag a super successful business woman.

 

          But that’s another one of my problems; I’m ugly as fuck. I weigh 120 fricken pounds, am 5’10 and have the complexion of a vampire. My hair is way too fluffy and absolutely unmanageable. The top is a dyed blond undercut with a darker shaved part underneath. I think the color’s kinda cool looking, but right now I haven’t gotten it cut in a while so it’s floppy and the roots are showing and the edges of the bottom curl a bit into my neck. My eyes are also brown. Brown is the most boring eye color. It’s not even hazel or a little bit golden, which is still dull.

 

     As I got out of my light blue 2004 Honda Element, my head barely missing the top while rustling around in my pockets for my keys, I spot a very out of place stranger waiting outside the shop, scuffing his faded red sneakers against the pavement. He is wearing a nondescript gray hoodie and a white NASA shirt underneath that is slightly transparent and shows off too much of his figure, and pale blue cuffed jeans that are loose but go a little too high up on his ankles. His dark brown hair is damn curly and stops just above his ears up top. He is pretty tan, probably Italian or something. His gaze is diverted from the rock he was kicking around when I clear my throat. About to ask him what he needed, he stares into my eyes. And I can’t believe how beautiful they are. Whoever said eyes were the window to the soul obviously knew what they were talking about. They’re even brown, like mine, but with flecks of a darker color in them. I momentarily forget what I was talking about.

 

    “Huh?”

 

    “You need something?” I quip intelligently, immediately regretting my words.

 

 

    “Uh, Yeah, the sign says they’re closed, so…” He says, gesturing towards the front window where a colorful sign with a fancy font is displayed. Shit. Sasha must not have shown up for her shift. It was 11 already, she was supposed to have been here since eight. I sigh heavily.

 

 

  “Shit. Sorry. My bad.”

 

 

   I unlock the door and let him in, flipping the sign and walking through the thick scent of dirt and gardenia.


	2. Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flower shop  
> A man enters a flower shop  
> and decides on some flowers  
> the florist wraps them up  
> as the man puts his hand into his pocket  
> to find the money,  
> the money to pay for the flowers  
> but at the same time  
> suddenly  
> he places a hand over his heart  
> and falls
> 
> As he falls  
> the money rolls around on the floor  
> and the flowers fall  
> with the man  
> with the money  
> and the florist stands there  
> as the money rolls  
> as the flowers ruin  
> as the man dies  
> it's obviously all very sad  
> and she really should do something  
> this florist  
> but she doesn't know how to go about it  
> she doesn't know  
> where to start
> 
> There are so many things to do  
> for this dying man  
> these ruining flowers  
> and this money  
> this rolling money  
> that won't stop.
> 
> -Jacques Prevert

I’ve always loved the smell of dirt.

The smell after it rains, earthy and deep, and if you take a deep breath and hold it in it’s like your lungs are blooming,

 

My shop floor is covered in it. Of course, I work my ass off sweeping and cleaning the fucken’ place, but it manages to even coat the floor in a fine dust. It’s a slipping hazard for sure, but it annoys me more how it never lets the place look pristine. It’s grainy and makes the linoleum look spotted. 

Of course, as soon as I enter the place and put my on apron that is hung up on a fucking arts and crafts project I painted, my eye is immediately drawn to the large Viper’s Bowstring Hemp that made an unfortunate trip to the floor. I make a surprised, almost strangled noise that catches in my throat, causing the stranger to look at me weirdly. He’s already in the next aisle over, looking at the roses and carnations. 

“Sorry about that,” I mumble to him, gesturing vaguely towards the approximate area of the plant.

“No problem,” He smiles.

I step over the plant to make my way through one of the crowded aisles, plants hanging over the side to greet me. It’s a wild cacophony of colors. My favorite color for a plant or flower is purple. It’s just so unnatural, so wild, it feels so out of place in the green and red shop. Almost like blue. But it fits in a little bit better than that.

I skirt around my desk, accidentally knocking over some pencils, and sit my ass down on the purple stool I have behind the counter. I stare at the slanted windows overhead, the green tint covering them, obstructing the sun. I pretend to be really interested in them as to not stare at the customer, and to give him some space as he chooses what plants he wishes to buy. I just want him out of here so I can properly open and clean the mess up front.

The dude approaches the counter holding a small peace lily. 

“Is that all for today?” I ask in my best customer service voice, cheesy grin plastered all the way on. 

“Um, yeah, I think so.” Is his muted reply. I clear my throat and take it from him awkwardly. His eyes never leave my face, and it’s creeping me out. Giving him a sideways glance, I scan the plant for him. After asking him if he’d like to join our rewards program, he just shakes his head while still giving me that weird ass look.

What is his problem?

 

“So, uh, why do you work here?” His voice lilts as he asks, going up to high at the end. He looks embarrassed, and I shoot him a weird look. I open my mouth to respond, then close it, looking dumb.

Because I don’t know how to answer.

Why do I work here? I very much could leave and live in Seattle with my parents, and just live off of their money before I eventually get married. I could move to California or Vermont and become a writer, or anywhere else I damn wanted. So why stay here, stuck in a job that I’m not particularly fond of, in the tiny dead ass town of Trost? I don’t particularly want to be near my parents, so that’s not why. I guess I could say that being around plants all day is kinda like studying botany, but it’s not really. 

I untense my face, realizing that I was scrunching up my forehead deep in thought and probably looked pretty weird. So I just give him the simplest answer I can think of;

“I grew up here and didn’t want to leave the area.”

“ That’s um, cool.”

“Thank you for shopping with us!” I hurriedly say, hoping he’ll leave soon.

He does, and I clean up the plant and spend the rest of the day in the shop where there is relatively little traffic, then pass on my shift to Erwin, the manager, and head home. Everything is normal, except for one lingering thought that’s been residing in the back of my mind. I can’t get over what that man said to me, and as I lay in bed, staring out the window at the Japanese Maple outside my window, I really wonder;

Why do I stay here?

And what’s stopping me from leaving?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo, I know I said I would update on the 12th, and I am rly sorry I wasn't able to do so. I was put into a mental hospital for 7 days on the 11th and wish I could have finished this sooner! But I will most definitly try to upload this again on 4/20.


	3. Quiet Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain Music  
> Sometimes the rain falls  
> as if its penning poetry  
> to the rhythm of its own music;  
> a sonic tune of liquid tapestry.
> 
> Cleft from a sky immersed  
> in the scene of a tragedy.  
> It's tears,  
> the pitter-patter;  
> a solemn dance  
> for all humanity.
> 
> An ancient jig this fluid frolic  
> never tiring of its endless cycle  
> vesting and revisiting this terra firma  
> like a lover emasculating the earth  
> of its desert state,  
> or adding to its oceans  
> in a bid to be free.
> 
> But you’re here again, I’ve noticed  
> for even through windows  
> your music plays a clamorous  
> and rather brazen beat.
> 
> Take my hand, why don’t you?
> 
> Come.
> 
> Dance with me.
> 
>  
> 
> -Qwey.ku

Today was a slow day.

I opened, which means that I had to wake up at buttcrack o’clock to get here before 7. But I didn’t mind it that much. I prefer mornings over nights, and I relished the crisp, stinging air that greeted me as I stepped out of my apartment. The air was thick and almost to the point of bursting. It was going to rain today.

When I was nine, I fell out of a tree. I fell on my wrist and cracked one of my fingers. I’ve since had a metal plate inserted, and I could feel it today. The type of cold that penetrates quite literally into your bones. The waiting humidity was a comfort, promising a shower to mute the earth for a couple of hours. The sight of dark clouds and green islands against the stark, jewel blue water accompanied me on the drive to work. At that moment I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

That is, until Sasha showed up for her shift.

She burst through the doors wearing an obnoxiously pink sweater and threw her arms around my neck.

“Jean! You grumpy loser! I missed you!” She exclaims loudly, skipping as she hangs up her bag and puts on her apron.

“Tie it for me?” She pouts, putting both hands on her hips and facing away from me.

“Sure, but… You can’t just not show up like that!” I claim exasperatedly, throwing my hands up before getting out from behind the desk to tie her apron into a bow for her. 

“Do you know how many customers we could have lost? And you didn’t even call me or anyone to cover your shift for you! That’s just so irresponsible! Where were you anyway that caused you to be gone for so long?” I fume, balling my hands into fists and pinning my shoulders to my ears. I frown at her, long and hard, trying very much to send her my anger. She giggles at my face and tilts her head at me, her long red ponytail swishing behind her. She makes a constipated sort of face where she scrunches up her mouth like a butthole and frowns deeply, thick lines appearing in her forehead. 

“Aguhawagashg... Are you trying to imitate ME!?” I gasp, placing a hand over my chest in mock offence. She pokes my cheek and laughs. Ok, maybe Sasha is a little, teensy bit adorable and I can’t help but forgive her. Only maybe, though.

“Sooooo, the reason that I was gone for so long is…” She drawls, putting one arm on the counter and resting her face in her hand while her finger draws circles on the wood. She stares at her finger, feigning indifference, but I can see her face twist as she suppresses a smile.

“What?” I ask bluntly. I am in no mood for her playful mannerisms. Ok, maybe a little. But I am STILL PISSED when she DIDN’T SHOW UP AT WORK Yesterday. I cross my arms and lean on my hip, tapping my foot impatiently.

“Guess!” Is her answer, and she has a mischievous but very wide grin, and she jumps up from her spot and stares at me expectantly.

“No, Sasha, I’m not going to do that.”

“...Please?” 

“No.”

She sighs. “Fine. I was on a DATE!” She jumps up, eyes wide as her hands latch onto my shoulders, and her smile is infectious. I am left falling and have to take a step back and grab onto her arms to steady myself, but once I’m stable I let myself smile a little. For her sake.

“So, who’s the lucky guy?” I inquire, faking a british accent. 

“His name is Connie, and he is the absolute best ever! He’s super funny, and took me out to eat at a really fancy place! And, he’s an absolute dahling,” She says, imitating my british accent at the end. She gracefully sits up on the counter, brushing her long, flowy skirt up under her butt. 

“So, Jeaney boy, are you seeing anyone?” She asks, her tone playful and lilting. I sigh and jump up to sit next to her, albeit much less prettily.

“No, Sasha. I think you’re forgetting the fact that I’m buttugly and have a personality to suit,” I sharply quip.

“Oh come on, you’re not that bad,” She reassures, but it sounds flat and unconvincing.

“How many friends do you even have? I know nothing about your life outside of here except that maybe your parents are loaded and that you drive a shitty car.” She squints at me, and I almost squirm under her scrutiny. 

“Do you and Erwin count?” 

 

“No, your old boss and your coworker do not count, dumbass,”

 

“Then none.”

 

She sits quietly for a moment.

“Well, that can’t be. Oh, I know! I’ll take you to one of my university parties!” she exclaims, suddenly lighting up like a firecracker. 

“Yeah! This is so awesome! You’ll get to meet Eren, and Marco, and Mikasa, and ooh Connie too! We are gonna get so lit…”

And as she drones on and on about everything we’re gonna do and all the drinks she’s gonna make this dude named Armin have, I have to sit here and face the horror that is building in my lungs right now.


	4. Purple Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapping you in webs of honey,  
> Dreams brought to you by an allegory  
> Will i see you again?
> 
> Filling my lungs, lending them away  
> Lucid flying, planning an escape  
> Trembling, disassembly
> 
> Wrecked, in whom’s right mind?  
> Dancing, and clomping in fearless behavior  
> They held me up, and onward
> 
> You lacked passion
> 
> -BleuDoe

I’ve never been to a party before.

I don’t mean a birthday party or a barbeque or one of those lame halloween parties your parents make you go to in like middle school, but one of those honest-to-god parties that’s all drinking, and drugs, and people making out that’s all a blur like they show in movies. I didn’t have enough friends in high school to get invited to one, and I was too busy studying my ass off in college to engage in any fun activities. Hell, the only alcohol I’ve had was the few sips my dad would let me have of his beers when I was like 12.

So I had no idea what to expect when Sasha picked me up in her shitty red minivan and dropped me off in front of a shady looking frat house with a few drunk 19 year olds lounging around on the porch.

She left to find an appropriate place to park her death machine, and as I stood there, at 8 o'clock in a February, I really wished I had brought a jacket.

And no, I didn’t mean the flannel hoodie I had wrapped around my waist. I had an image to keep up, and It looked too nice along with my dark green Legend of Zelda shirt and black skinnies. 

So, I was standing there, staring at the admittedly beautiful sunset, rubbing my goosebump covered arms, when one of the drunk students called out to me.

“Hey! You in the edgy jeans! Look at how fucking hot my girlfriend is!” A girl with a brunette ponytail yelled. She was full on pissed, looked older than everyone else there, and was leaning on (and almost falling off of) the railing. Another girl who I could only assume is the girlfriend blushed very deeply. A guy with his hair cropped incredibly close to his head who was lounging in a chair and looked very much sober yelled to me something I couldn’t hear.

“What?” I shout, still furiously rubbing my arms.

“You look fucking cold!”Is his response.

 

When Sasha returns and I actually enter the house, it is already pitch black outside. There’s maybe 30 people here, and most are drinking out of red solo cups, but there's a group of people smoking what smells like weed in the corner that Sasha and the bald guy, who I learned is Connie, immediately drift towards. The tall freckled brunette, who is apparently called Ymir, leaned down to kiss her tiny blonde girlfriend before leaving to join them, and the girlfriend blushes immensely and is called Historia. And as I stand here, trying to ignore the too-loud pop music that is being played through a blue speaker, I realize that I have been left alone here with Historia. And I begin to panic.

“So, uh, how long have you and… and Ymir been together?” My voice cracks in 12 different places as I say this.

Historia beams and brightly says, “Oh! About a month now. We’ve known each other since high school, though.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I mumble, staring at my shoes. Historia is quiet, and I can feel her tense up, the awkwardness fermenting in the air between us. She clears her throat as if about to say something. I glance at her, but she still seems unsure of what to say. Finally, her eyes light up and she grabs my arm.

“Oh! Jean! Have you met Marco yet?” She whirls me around, and I am met face-to-face with the brown eyed boy from the flower shop.

“Hi! So, you’re Jean, right?” He smiles, extending a hand for a handshake. I blink dumbly for a few seconds before responding.

“OH! Oh, hi, yes I’m Jean, and your name is… Marco, correct?” I hurriedly say, grabbing his hand too fast and squeezing it too hard. He’s wearing a simple gray shirt and the same light blue jeans. He has a cup of some foul-smelling liquid that’s almost halfway done, but he looks pretty sober to me.

“Yeah, That’s me!” I say, my voice too loud. Damn it, why do I sound like this? 

 

“So, what… Oh! Armin!” Historia whirls around, spotting a small blonde boy with red glasses who very much looks like the male version of her.

“Hi Historia! Hi Marco! And who is this?” He asks, giving me a small smile.

“This? Oh, this is Jean.” She gives him a blinding grin. All of the sudden, they’re a loud smash of glass breaking. We instantly turn our heads and see Ymir standing, looking incredibly angry. There’s a broken bong under her foot, and she’s rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. The victim of her wrath is an even angrier looking boy, with a shaggy mop of straight brown hair and an eyebrow piercing. A tall, beautiful girl is holding him back. Historia lets out a tiny, very cute gasp, and rushes to Ymir’s side, grabbing onto her arm. Armin is at the boy’s side, and now Marco and I are standing here alone together. His eyes are incredibly wide, and he grabs my shoulder and pushes me in the direction of a kitchen. As I am thrust into the brightly lit dining area, he turns around and joins me, his eyes still large. 

“Could I get you a drink?”

Marco was completely aghast at my virginity to alcohol. After pouring me a cup of some sour smelling pale brown liquid, he sat me down at the counter and placed his chin in his hand, expectantly waiting for me to taste a sip.

It was a shame that he chose to wear a grey shirt.

After apologizing profusely and fetching him several paper towels to clean up the mess I had spat onto his shirt, he simply took them from me and cleaned it himself, denying any attempts I made to make up for it. 

Ymir enters the kitchen, stops, then stares at us. 

“Wow, did some drunk girl throw up on you or something?”

“Is it really that bad?”

 

She snorts. “Hell yeah it is. Here, come to my room and I can get you a new shirt.” She downs the rest of her cup then snatches two more, placing them into each of our hands. 

“Drink up, Jean,” She slurs.

And as they make their way up the stairs of the house into what I can only presume is Ymir's bedroom, I can only follow.

Aside from a few obscure band posters and a red comforter, Ymir's room is pretty desolate. She picks out a Nirvana shirt for him and the turns around as he changes. After he’s done, she leads us both downstairs back into the thrall, and fetches me another beer as I had reluctantly downed the first one. Marco leaves to take a phone call and Ymir leads me to the basement, where there’s a foosball and pool table. I am pretty wicked at foosball, and I beat the first few successors with ease. I’m now on my fourth drink and my skills are getting a little rusty, but so is everyone else, so I don’t really care. Until the angry brown haired guy from before shows up. He’s flanked by Armin and the black haired girl. Everyone is tired of playing against me and has since moved on to pool. 

“Hey, do you wanna play foosball?” He asks. I’m sitting on the floor, knees propping up the fifth drink I’m nursing.

“Sure.” I climb to my feet and rest the cup on the floor.

I end up kicking his ass.

12 times.

This asshole does not seem to stop. His name, I’ve found out by the meek cheering of Armin, is Eren. And after the 13th time of him losing, he is getting pretty angry. The girl, who is Mikasa (And absolutely gorgeous and who I’ve asked out like six times in the span of 20 minutes), is turned away, and Eren decides to get a little physical.

He grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls my chest across the table. “What is your fucking problem,” He murmurs.

And I’m pretty sure I broke his nose.  
So I find myself in Ymir’s bedroom, trying to pry open the window so I can escape. But everything’s pretty foggy, and I somehow manage to cut my hand open on the lock. I finally get it open, and I crawl out to a sweet wash of cool air. I sigh, looking at the dimly lit street, and wonder how I’m gonna fucking get down.

 

Someone clears their throat behind me.

I whirl around, my heart skipping a beat, and am faced with Marco. His face is tear stained and red, and beer cans litter the roof next to him. And oh my fuck how did I not realize he has freckles?

“You… Have freckles.” I dumbly state.

He laughs, but it’s not a that-was-funny laugh, it’s more of a surprised what-the-fuck-did-you-even-say laugh, and for a moment he doesn’t look sad. But then his face crumples, and he’s left looking very sad and weary and defeated, and on a roof, holy fuck why is he here….

“Why are you up here?” He softly exclaims, but in there a sniffle is caught, and he’s rubbing his eyes with the sleeves of the Nirvana shirt that is not his, sitting on rooftop that is not his.

“I- I think I broke Eren’s nose.” He lets about another short, surprised laugh, and moves his arm so a single eye is looking at me.

 

“Why are you up here?” I ask, feeling like it’s only appropriate since he asked me it.

“Nothing important,” He smiles. But it’s a really sad smile.

I scoot up to him and turn around, facing the same direction he’s facing. 

“Do you wanna… Talk about it?” 

Oh fuck. That wasn’t the right thing to say. I am so bad at consoling people, and I’m drunk out of my mind, but even I know that was the totally wrong thing to say.

“What are you, my therapist?’ He jokes, giving me another unfairly sad smile. 

“Shit. My bad. I shouldn't have said that.” I whisper. He looks at me, and his face is entirely unreadable.

“But seriously, dude, I wanna know what’s going on, and if you don’t mind telling me what’s making you feel this way…” I press, trying to make him feel better. I have no idea why I’m trying to comfort this guy I just met, but I feel like I can’t just leave him here.

He takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky, as if bracing himself. He speaks slowly, letting each word hang in the air between us.

“I just found out that my stepdad’s cancer has accelerated to stage four.”

There is so much tension between us, and I have absolutely no words. He sits there, staring at me, face expressionless, but the dried stains of his tears extremely visible from the porch light underneath us. 

He barks out a laugh, and it surprises me so much I physically move, my heart jumping. It’s a really angry laugh, and he grabs his hair, growling and shoving his face in his knees. He sits there like that for a moment, hugging his legs, then tilts his head, staring at me. It’s an almost scary experience, his eyes shining from the tears and the streetlight behind us and the rest of his face dark in shadow from his arms. He sits up and stares at me, then does his little laughing bark again.

“Why are you just staring at me?” He demands.

“I-I don't know what to say,” I respond unintelligently.

“Of course you don’t,” He exclaims incredulously. He lies down on the rooftop, facing away from me, and hugs his knees. I can see his shoulders tremble.

“I-” I start.

 

“Everyone wants to help, everyone has this little fucking hero complex, they just want to pity you and feel better about themselves from your misery. Yet they've never been through anything close to it, and when it boils down to it, they have nothing to fucking say!” He throws his hands up, waving them around angrily.

“AND,” He continues, “Why should I even tell people like you? It’s my thing! ANd you can’t even help, and I don’t even want help, and it’s just so… So frustrating!” He takes a deep breath, and I’ve decided that I’m done with this, so before he can say another word, I throw my hands up (even though he can’t see me,) and interject.

“How can you expect people to not pity you if you can’t even stop pitying yourself?” I loudly exclaim. “And you don’t even know how to help yourself, except for apparently get really fucking drunk on a rooftop, so I don’t know how you want others too!” I take a breath. “And also, at least I’m trying. You’re not even trying to understand it at all!” And I have no idea what I’m saying, and my train of thought derailed about 3 hours ago, and I’ve had six drinks, but I sit there, panting, and I look up and I observe the stars. I can see the whole milky way from here.

And when I look down, he’s staring at me. I don’t even want to fucking deal with him right now, so I lay down and close my eyes. I suddenly realize how tired I am. I look up and he's still staring at me, and oh my god what is his problem, and then we’re kissing, and he tastes like gross beer (Which I officially hate and will never drink again), and he’s on top of me, and he’s warm against the fresh night air, and his hand curl into my grown in undercut,

And I decide that maybe I don’t hate brown eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo.  
> It is 2:22 am. 
> 
> And I officially want to Go To Sleep. 
> 
> So i apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors!
> 
> I hope you enjoy !! <3


	5. Love Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Vermillion  
> The words in my house  
> were flat,  
> one syllable,  
> hard beginnings  
> or endings,  
> easy to line up–  
> like wooden dominoes–  
> easy to use, remember.  
> I spent years  
> trying to replace them  
> with a fluency of crimson  
> indigo emerald lapis  
> vermillion (how I loved  
> vermilion when I found it).  
> And still I haunt  
> Neruda Akhmatova  
> Darwish’s girl, her spirit  
> transparent as apricots in March,  
> looking for—what?  
> Something rounder  
> than what I was given,  
> something beyond black and white,  
> something like blown red glass.  
> —L.L. Barkat, from Love, Etc.

When I woke up, My tongue hurt.

Of course, so did everything else. My head felt like it was filled with cotton, I had strange aches in my limbs, and my chest and neck were sore. 

But it was my tongue that hurt the most.

And as I awoke in a bedroom that was very much not mine and stumbled to a mirror, I found out two things;

First of all, my chest and neck were absolutely covered in hickeys.

 

And secondly, I had a metal bar through my tongue.

 

Almost immediately after I come to this stunning revelation, a head pokes through the door on my left. I turn, shocked, towards the person, extremely aware of the fact that I am completely in the nude.

 

It’s fucking Marco.

“Do you… need anything?” He shyly asks, putting a hand up to his neck. He’s wearing a dress shirt with a brown sweater over it. 

 

“Uh, yeah… Where are my clothes?” I bluntly come forth with.

“They’re, uh… on the desk.” I turn and find them neatly folded.

“One more thing.” I point to the bed. “What the FUCK happened here?”

Marco’s face turns bright red, and he quickly stutters a reply.

“Nothing! We didn’t do anything. I mean, a lot happened last night, but that… wasn’t one of them. I actually slept over at Armin’s place.”

“Then why am I naked? And why do I have metal in my face?”

He sighs. “Alcohol makes you feel warmer, and you were so wasted.”

“How much did I actually drink?”

“9 drinks, Jean. and you have a tongue bar because you insisted on entering that tattoo shop, and the guy said you had to buy something or you had to leave, and apparently it’s something you’ve always wanted.” Huh. The thought of getting any piercing, really, had never crossed my mind.

“There’s muffins in the cabinets if you get hungry and towels are at the top of my closet if you need to shower, the showers are just down the hall, please get yourself ready-”

“Why are you being so nice?”

“What?”

“I literally just crashed at your place, drunk off my ass and naked, and now you’re giving me food and shit?”

“I couldn’t just let you go home with an open wound, could I? Now I’ve got to go, my next class is starting in 20 minutes. After that I can drive you home, so just sit tight, ok?”  
“You’re even driving me home? I could just go with Sasha, you know? Or drive myself?”

“Jean, you are hungover, there is no way I'm letting you drive. Sasha’s not answering her phone, I assume she’s still sleeping, and I cannot miss Trig so I’ll see you in 2 hours.”

I’m very pissed, but I manage to shower, get dressed, brush my teeth and do the cleaning on my peircing (Which I don’t know how to feel about anymore) in the span of 30 minutes, leaving an hour and a half to fuck around in Marco’s dorm. The first thing I do is sit, very awkwardly, on the bed I’ve half-haphazardly made. I sit for 10 minutes before I realize that my phone is charging beside it, god bless Marco’s heart. I dive for it, opening it up to find it’s left on my camera app. I open up Gallery and find that I have 49 new photos. I embark on the journey of viewing every last one of them, as terrified as I am.

At least 10 of them are either photos or videos of my hand or the ground or weird angles that are obviously accidents. The distinguishable pictures tell a story, one that I reluctantly embark on.

 

The first 3 photos are of the rooftop. There’s marco smiling, a very blurry selfie of me kissing Marco’s cheek, and a video of me telling Marco how sick it would be if I jumped and him holding me back.

The next series is very much in a different setting. There’s about 15 photos where someone must have spammed the button of me standing in the middle of a sidewalk in what appears to be downtown Seattle. The streetlamp gives it terrible lighting, and I look like shit.

The rest just consists of me being super excited about the tattoo shop and me apparently chasing some geese?!?!?! Now at least know where the giant gash on my forearm is from.

With more questions than when I first woke up, I put my phone down and lay back onto Marco’s bed. I’m exhausted, but I can’t stop worrying.

I’m not gay, right?

I didn’t mean to kiss Marco. I was just drunk, and I’d never been drunk before, so I wouldn’t know what it’s like. 

It’s normal, right? It shouldn’t make me question my heterosexuality.

But as I remember the warmth of his lips, and how my mind had just blanked…

I am entirely too tired to think about this right now.

I fall asleep, and an hour later, I am awoken by the jingle of keys. 

The car drive takes 40 minutes.

Marco didn’t let me sit in the front, so I am confined to laying down in the back. I guess it makes me less of a puking hazard or something.

He pulls up in my driveway, and my headache subsides as soon as the car stops. I get my shit and get out. I start towards my house, but then stop, turning back to talk to him through his door.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m, uh, straight.”

He nods, looking disinterested.

I had him a 100 and enter my building.

Sasha is waiting at my door for me.

“Jean, you missed your shift, and you didn’t even call! Do you know how worried I was?”

“Not in the mood.” I push past her, unlocking my door while I tune out her voice.

She sighs, resolved, and leaves. I continue like normal, but with new numbness inside. The next morning, i get to work an hour early. I don’t talk to anyone, and I’m the only one working all day, having taken two extra shifts to make it up to Erwin.

I don’t mind, though.

The plants give me space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This took forever to come out! I'm going t try and update sooner if anyone actually wants some, but I hope you enjoy some angsty Jean! btw, the song I was listining to the entirety of the time I was writing this was Portland by the Bowling Shoes, and I would 100% reccomend along with this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I will be posting the next chapter on Friday 4/12!


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